


A Trifle More

by okapi



Series: Quiver 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Dildos, Light Bondage, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: ACD. Holmes/Mary Watson/Watson. Set during "A Scandal in Bohemia."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theorclair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorclair/gifts).



> Set in the same 'verse as [And I aquiver beneath them both](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7889956).
> 
> The first 500 words were original published as a ficlet of the same name on the LJ Holmes_Minor comm for the September prompt: seven and for the LJ 1_million_words Weekend 'Fortune Cookie' challenge: _The world may be your oyster, but it doesn't mean you'll get its pearl._ Last 60 words were used as my 2016 LJ Sherlock60 comm entry for "A Scandal in Bohemia."

I grunted.  
  
The front of my shirt was unbuttoned; the back was damp with sweat. My trousers were pooled at my feet. Two words brought my hobbled exertions to an abrupt halt.  
  
“John. Stop.”  
  
I withdrew. I stood.  
  
One look, and my lust dulled to shame. I hung my head.  
  
A hand weighed on my shoulder.  
  
“Were passion its drive, I should welcome being ridden like a Derby frontrunner by my husband.” Her gentle smile bloomed, then faded, at the snort. “But no one glories in being the flesh-bound whipping post of an unnamed frustration. Unburden yourself or seek remedy elsewhere.”  
  
“Holmes says that I have put on seven and a half pounds since you and I married. I say seven.” I ran a hand over my soft belly. “‘Indeed. I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,’” I mocked.  
  
“You take offense?”  
  
“I certainly do! I am still fit enough to chase after criminals, to aide him in the more physical aspects of his investigations. I am still able to…”  
  
“Lay vigorous siege to your wife?”  
  
I grimaced.  
  
“After announcing this observation, did Mister Holmes eschew your assistance?”  
  
“Well, no. He asked me to stay, and he said he was lost without his Boswell. It was rather nice.”  
  
“The observation is his nature, John, but mightn’t its utterance be provoked by envy?”  
  
“Envy?! If Holmes wanted a wife to fatten him up, he could use his enormous faculties, and not inconsiderable resources, to procure one. He could set himself up with four meals a day, an army of Mary Janes, and a comely—or not, per his taste—general aide-de-camp to command them.”  
  
Her expression was of the family—though a kinder, sweeter cousin—of those that Holmes often bestowed upon me, for example, when I mistook ‘hospital’ for ‘hunt.’  
  
“What am I missing, my dear?”  
  
“Perhaps he is not envious of _you_.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“How much weight did you gain between your arrival at Baker Street until our marriage, John?”  
  
“About the same. Seven pounds. I was quite thin when I returned from Afghanistan.”  
  
“So it took Mister Holmes many years to accomplish what I managed in mere months. He may excel in many areas but with regard to the care and feeding of John Watson, I am _his_ superior.”  
  
I fell to one knee before her and as I bowed my head, a soft baritone filled the room.  
  
“Though the world may be one’s oyster, my dear Watson, the gifts of its pearls do not necessarily follow.”  
  
Mary turned.  
  
“Now, Mister Holmes. You’ve disturbed my husband and, for a moment, my marriage bed. Whether out of mischief or boredom or _sentiment_ ,” she drew out the word, “is not my concern. Your punishment is, however. You might benefit from old fashioned discipline of the lower variety, but there are more imaginative ways of administering justice.”  
  
He uncurled from the head of the bed and crawled towards us.  
  
“I humbly place myself in your hands, Madame.”

* * *

“There,” I said as I tied the final knot. The bonds were symbolic. Holmes could easily wretch himself free with a pair of sharp tugs of the wrists. I turned back to Mary. “Now where were we?”

“Thank you, my dear,” she said with a smile. “And I believe that we were at the point of Mister Holmes watching me take first place at Epsom.”

“My money is on the horse,” he growled from his place of detention, “regardless of the fitness of the rider.”

And I knew he must’ve winked at Mary for one girlish half-giggle bubbled from her lips right before she fixed me with a coquettish stare, daring me to whine or retort at the jibe.

I did neither. My thoughts were of her—and him—not myself, for once.

I believe that I’ve mentioned that our marriage bed—the literal furnishing, not the euphemistic state of affairs—was not designed with our current annotated arrangement in mind. In short, it was short. And narrow.

As Mary leaned back on the bed and spread her legs, she was forced to slot herself between, though slightly below, Holmes’s legs. I maneuvered to the foot of the bed, balancing a bit precariously with my own ankles hanging over the edge.

Holmes stared straight down at us from the opposite end of the bed. His arms were spread, each tethered to a bedpost. The wicked light in his eyes betrayed enjoyment at this position, view and, perhaps, his own condition of mock captivity.

And, I confess, that the desire in his gaze rekindled my own lust. I began stroking myself from mid-shaft to base as I teased Mary’s entrance with the head of my cock.

Holmes and I grunted in appreciation as Mary arched her back, caressed her breasts, and writhed in a theatrically wanton—but nonetheless arousing—fashion. She reached her arms upward and stretched her beautiful torso. My gaze followed the line made by her fingers to Holmes’s cock, rosy and erect, jutting out of a mass of dark hair.

My mouth watered. I stared at it, imagining I could see it swelling to greater fullness and throbbing, sending a pulse of violent want to the complex machine that controlled it.

I was assuredly distracted from the other task, to put it crudely, at hand, for Mary soon took over the process of guiding of my prick further and further inside her. Under her direction, we soon found, what I hoped was, a satisfying rhythm of thrusting. Then she ran her hands along my back, squeezing my buttocks and teasing my frenulum on the downward journey.

I looked up and caught sight of Holmes’s cock anew. It was leaking gorgeously now. I opened my mouth instinctively and two of Mary’s fingers brushed my tongue. I groaned as I tasted my own desire on her skin. Then I closed my mouth around her digits, sucking and licking them as if they were Holmes’s plump member.

Holmes cried out. “Cruel instructor, the lesson is learned!” His voice was an unusual blend of strain and amusement, as if he were, indeed, being tortured, and yet hopelessly smitten with his persecution as well as his persecutor.

Mary’s hips rose to meet my thrusting. My desire was building, building until…

“That’s enough.”

I blinked and she was already an arm’s length from me.

“John, if you will.” She gestured to the bedposts on either side of me.

The fog of lust was still heavy, thick, and it did not dissipate when she hopped off the bed nor when she returned.

With a second measure of rope.

I was, in a word, confused.

“My dear,” I said softly as she began fastening my wrist one wooden pillar. “What is the meaning of this?” My other wrist got similar treatment.

“You needn’t allow Mister Holmes’s to bait you, John. No matter how provoking his statements may be, intentional,” she looked over her shoulder, “or not, you should not allow them to invade this haven or take your frustrations out upon me.”

Holmes guffawed. “Mrs. Watson, were that I could clap! I shall only cry ‘Brava!’”

I directed a hard glare at Holmes, then turned a gentler gaze on my wife. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, my dear.” I made to reach for her and found myself bound.

Not mock-bound, truly tied, that is to say, not able to free myself at all.

“My dear, these knots are,” I tugged, “quite unforgiving.”

“John, I told you quite plainly that whilst you were at that medical conference in Edinburgh, Mister Holmes—or rather Captain Basil—had stopped by to give me some instructions in knot-tying. And you know the cause very well: I do not want a repeat of that unfortunate incident with the servant girl before Mary Jane.”

“Yes, but I thought that was…”

Two sets of eyes stared at me as if I were mad.

“…a turn of a phrase,” I finished meekly.

There were huffs of mild scorn, the male and female of the species, then Mary sprang from the bed to retrieve something from a drawer.

“You two are off on your adventures so regularly these days,” she mused, raising a glass shaft, tilting it, turning it, studying it with admiration, “and I find that sometimes I am thrilled—a cup of tea and a bit of peace and a chapter read straight through without interruption—but sometimes, I find other ways to amuse myself in your absence.”

She arranged herself across the width of the bed with her legs spread, then she put the rounded tip of the shaft to her muff.

Though the notion of such instruments was not novel to me, I was unaware that one had found a home in my own bedchamber!

“My dear, where on earth…?”

“Oh, this?” she said in a teasing voice. My eyes followed its path between her legs. “I’ve had it since school.”

The shock on my face sparked laughter from both my bed companions. I snorted as indignantly as my current state of ridiculous confinement would allow and turned my head toward the wall.

When I turned back, Mary was on hands and knees. I watched the glass shaft disappear inside her. She threw her head back and moaned so prettily, I thought perhaps I might come to crisis right there, untouched.

“Mrs. Watson?”

“Yes, Mister Holmes?” Mary lifted herself up, then sank back down again, over and over, leaning forward and adjusting the angle of the instrument every so often.

“Might you afford me the grand opportunity of sucking your cock?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Mary rolled towards him.

Holmes licked the glass shaft. When Mary pressed it between his lips, he sucked.

By the time she was gently thrusting it in his mouth, in essence, fucking him with her translucent rod, I was pulling at my bonds to the point of pain and growling in a beastly, feral fashion, but neither Holmes nor Mary paid my struggle any attention.

Mary slowly drew the shaft from Holmes’s mouth. He whimpered when it completely slipped past his lips. She trailed the wet tip down his body to his cock and then coated it with his secretions.

Then she crawled toward me with her rod.

Of course, I swallowed as much of it as she would allow me, tasting the flavor of both my beloveds on it. She pumped it in and out of my mouth, and I imagined it to be some kind of mythical member, a monstrous hydra wand, physical manifestation of their joint lust.

I snorted and sniffed and grunted around it.

I was mad with need. So hard, so very hard and wanting.

She whispered, “You would allow me to breach you with this, husband?” She removed it from my mouth and drew a wet stripe across my cheek.

“Gladly,” I mumbled.

Her body was so close to mine. If only I could brush against her, no matter how cursory or obliquely, I might find my release at once.

“Mister Holmes?” she asked.

“Willingly and in this precise moment, should it please you, Madame.”

The words seemed to satisfy her, for she grinned much like Holmes does at the end of one his longer, spiels of deductive reasoning; and then her voice fell.

“Mister Holmes.”

It was a command—both issued and understood, but neither by me—for in an instant, she was rutting against me and Holmes was free of his bonds and rutting against her.

We shuddered as one, spending and spilling and muttering oaths, common and uncommon phrases.

And in the violence of our union, the glass shaft rolled off the narrow bed and, I spied out of the corner of my eye, landed gently on the rug.

Then a hand gripped my hair tightly, almost painfully, at the scalp. My bonds were cut, with a sharp blade that would provoke considerable alarm in me when I found it beneath the bed some days later.

And then Holmes and I were pressed together, awkwardly servicing her in whatever order and configuration that the iron grasp, instrument of an even steelier will, bid.

Mary had come to trembling quickness twice before easing from under us and reaching for her dressing gown.

She sighed. “I’m going to go have a cup of tea, and when I return, I want you reconciled, thoroughly. Then we shall all rest for I imagine a full day’s adventures await us all tomorrow.”

And with those parting words uttered, she left the room.

* * *

“Holmes.”

“Watson.”

We fell against each other but maneuvered carefully until we were side-by-side on the bed.

Hands.

Hands everywhere. Every part of me, every part of him, caressed.

“I adore every ounce of you, my stubborn, sensitive, well-fed…”

“I am still about to assist you in the manner that you require…”

“Hush, you worry needlessly. I’m a cat…”

“Who loves to be pet…”

“Who purrs for his keepers and hisses at strangers…”

“Holmes.”

He pulled me atop him. “I want to feel, to know, the weight of you.” I straddled him and with a palm wet with his spit and mine, stroked myself to release once more.

I made to move down his body, and he stopped me.

“She’s right, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I also know we’ve both behaved quite foolishly, as foolish as, well, a future king having his photograph taken with a contralto, and with neither of us able to offer the ready excuse of youth.”

“His Majesty was indiscrete. We are anything but…”

I smiled and kissed his lips softly.

“Love me, Watson,” he whispered.

“In every way possible, my dear man.”

I took his cock in my hand and began to pump.

“It would be something,” he said with a mischievous grin and a glance toward the rug, “to see your lovely wife make good on her suggestion of earlier.”

“Of course, she may take every liberty she chooses,” I conceded. “But I’d prefer something more natural and less, well, frankly, less likely to shatter or splinter, inside me.” I fixed my eyes on the head of his prick pushing through my tight fist.

“Would you, now?” he asked with one raised eyebrow.

* * *

“Holmes!” I shouted into the bedding.

My preparation? Tedious and tiresome. And yet the feel of his cock inside me? Terrific and terrifying.

My body had yielded to the intrusion, my mind had surrendered to his pleasure, but now I was growing impatient with Holmes’s restraint, with his caution, with his bloody thoughtfulness.

I turned my head. “Fuck me, you miserable bastard,” I growled.

He laughed. “Gladly. Willingly. And so roughly that I shall, in an act of pure munificence, give you until three tomorrow afternoon to recover, before calling upon your sitting room services. Oh, and you shall be sitting, if only as a reminder of your first-place finish, my handsome steed.”

He winked. I know he did.

I groaned.

* * *

Sleep was near, like a client oscillating on the pavement.

“I have neither the character nor society’s permission to tend to him as you do. And he is so conspicuously loved; his person, wardrobe, everything about him says so.”

“I act as any wife.”

“Indeed. I should have thought a little more.” I heard him smile. “Just a trifle more.”


End file.
